


Recipe for Disaster

by Jabberwockyx



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Domestic, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Some light murder at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabberwockyx/pseuds/Jabberwockyx
Summary: Roadhog teaches Junkrat how to cook. He then attempts to make a meal for Roadhog as a Christmas gift. It goes just about as well as you'd expect.





	Recipe for Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> My Secret Santa gift for Pyro from the Roadrat Riders Discord -- I hope you enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

"Home again, home again," Junkrat sang. He zipped the fly of his shorts, kicked some dry sand over the wet patch at his feet, and put his hands on his hips to survey the vast desert before him with utter contentment.

They had arrived back in Australia after a jaunt abroad and had stopped to answer nature's call and take in the scenery before returning to their house on the outskirts of Junkertown. Junkrat had never realised just how fond he was of the barren wasteland he had grown up in. With its sparse vegetation and deadly fauna, the Outback was the farthest thing from traditionally beautiful -- but then again, so was he.

"Jiggity jog," he added as an afterthought. The faintest of memories tickled the back of his mind as he vaguely recalled being three years old, in his mother's lap, as she sang a childhood jingle to him. He remembered giggling fit to burst as she counted on his ten toes -- back when he still had all ten of them -- _this little piggy went to market_... "How's the first part of that go again?" he asked. "No, don't tell me!" Anticipating an answer from Roadhog, he flung an arm out dramatically to smack him in the chest. It came to him in a flash of inspiration, and he whirled on the spot to grip Roadhog's forearms and grin up at him maniacally. "To market, to market, to buy a fat hog!" He burst out into giggles and threw his arms around Roadhog. "I'd buy you, y'know,” he said, voice muffled as he planted his face into Roadhog’s chest. “If y’were fer sale. I'd actually _pay_ , imagine that!"

"I wouldn't buy you," Roadhog replied. He rubbed the sore spot where Junkrat had hit him, his other hand resting comfortably on the small of Junkrat's back.

Junkrat ducked out under his arm and gasped in mock offense. He'd known Roadhog long enough to know when he wasn't actually being insulted.

"I'd steal you. What kind of money do you think I have?" Roadhog deadpanned.

Junkrat snickered. He was _loving_ the implication that he was worth more than the considerable amount of wealth the two of them had plundered together.

Roadhog's house loomed over the rest of the ramshackle shanties that littered the area just outside the gates of Junkertown. It was imposing in its stature, much like the man itself.

"Gotta say, it's good to be back," Junkrat said conversationally. "Don't just mean Down Under either, I'm talkin' about bein' back in ol' Junkertown. S'been too long. Think anyone here still remembers me?"

He pushed the door open.

Several Junkers' heads whipped up in unison to look at them, eyes practically glowing in the gloom of the interior as they huddled together conspiratorially, like feral beasts gathered around a kill.

" _You!_ " With a vicious roar, a man came hurtling straight at them.

Junkrat blinked, stupefied.

"Gonna say yes, they do," Roadhog muttered. He grabbed the strap of Junkrat's harness and tugged him out of harm's way.

Thrown off balance by the force of his own momentum, the Junker stumbled.

"Who the hell are _you_?" Junkrat rubbed his chest, where the leather strap had bit into his skin.

The man spluttered. "What the-- how do you _not remember me_?"

Junkrat squinted and leaned in close, scrutinising the man's face for something, anything, that would trigger a memory. "...Nope! I got nothin'," he said cheerfully.

Roadhog picked up the Junker, his hand circling easily around his neck. "You're in my house," he growled. "Get out!" He threw him on the floor, where he skidded to join the rest of his gang.

Junkrat sprinted to fetch his grenade launcher while Roadhog pulled his hook out of its holster on his hip.

“So, the usual plan of attack then, big guy?”

Roadhog chuckled. “I’ll hook ‘em!”

“And I’ll cook ‘em!” Junkrat gleefully finished. “Say, there’s an idea.”

Roadhog flung his weapon at one of the trespassers, who yelped as the hook lodged in her chest with a sickening squelch. "What?" He yanked on the chain with a grunt, and his prey sailed toward them.

Junkrat picked her off mid-air with a grenade to the head. "Cooking!" he said airily, raising his voice to be heard over their victim's boyfriend's anguished howl. "Proper cooking, like with a stove and shit!"

He grinned at Roadhog expectantly. Roadhog roughly pushed him aside and fired his scrap gun at a particularly murderous Junker.

Junkrat nodded. "Roight, roight," he said knowingly. "First we take back what's ours. _Then_ we can cook!"

They made short work of the intruders. Junkrat appraised the missing limbs and bloodshed that was his handiwork with a satisfied nod. "They didn't stand a chance," he snickered. "That's what y'get when ya cross Junkrat and Roadhog!"

They disposed of the bodies by dumping them in the river behind their base of operations. Junkrat could hazard a guess why they'd broken in; he was a little too free with his tongue, and it was no secret that they'd acquired a nice little cache of loot. Granted, what they considered "riches" wasn't necessarily in line with the standard definition of the term -- he was _fairly_ certain that most people wouldn't find Roadhog's pachimari machine to be worth all that much in the grand scheme of things -- but they _did_ have more than their fair share of gold and jewels.

Not that it was enough for him. The Queen still had _way_ more cash than he did, and that just wasn't fair.

They had nothing to be concerned about, though. No one would ever find their treasure room -- Junkers didn't work together the way that Junkrat and Roadhog did, as two halves of a whole. They weren't savvy enough to think to stand on two separate pressure pads as a team, if they even realised the function of the metal plates.

Junkrat was not confused about why they had found Junkers searching their house. What _did_ mystify him was the fact that they had _recognised_ him, when he was positive he'd never seen them before in his life.

Practically positive.

30%, give or take.

"Okay, but seriously, d'you remember what we did to piss these blokes off?" he asked Roadhog as they chucked the last of the evidence off the cliff's edge. He watched the severed head plummet until it hit the water.

Roadhog shook his head.

"It was prob'ly somethin' you did." Junkrat took Roadhog's silent stare as confirmation that yes, he was, in fact, utterly blameless, and Roadhog was the responsible party. "Anyways!" he said with a bright smile. He pulled the door open and ushered Roadhog in with a dramatic bow. "Victory dinner? Teach me how to cook, 'Hog!"

Roadhog snorted. "Worst idea you've had since we met. And you've had a lot."

"Oi! My ideas are _brill_ , I dunno what yer on about."

"You threw a 10,000 sparkler bomb in a campfire."

Junkrat vividly recalled the resulting violent explosion. He'd scorched everything in a five metre radius and singed his eyebrows off. "Okay, in retrospect, not my finest moment. But what's so bad about teachin' me to cook?"

Roadhog stared at him, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"...Because I threw a 10,000 sparkler bomb in a campfire? Oh come _on_!" He flopped onto their bed in exaggerated exasperation. "I'm not gonna burn the house down!" He gestured at their hotplate. "We're not even cookin' with gas! No open flame or nothin'."

"You'd find a way."

"Ta!" he said, beaming at Roadhog. He chose to take it as a compliment, a measure of his abilities as a demolitionist, instead of the insult it was probably intended to be.

Roadhog gave a huff of amusement and sat down on the bed next to him. Junkrat popped his head up to look at him. "Listen," he persisted. "Lemme prove ya wrong."

"If I say yes, will you shut up?"

Junkrat's grin widened. "Gladly!" _Never_.

"Fine," Roadhog said with the long-suffering sigh of someone who knew he was going to regret this decision.

Junkrat cackled and clapped his hands. "Perfect! So, what we gonna make? Meat pies? Sausage rolls? A good ol' fashioned barbecue?"

"Do any of those sound like something I'd eat?"

Junkrat's eyes flicked over to the patch on Roadhog's harness that bore a hunk of meat with a red slash through it. "...No," he admitted, his enthusiasm deflating a little. He couldn't help it, he was experiencing a craving.

The springs of the bed groaned as Roadhog stood up. "I'll get some ingredients," he said.

Junkrat bounded to his feet, but before he could ask what the plan was, Roadhog stopped him.

"You're staying here."

"What!" Junkrat yelped, glaring at Roadhog as if he had personally wronged him.

"You're not allowed in Junkertown," Roadhog pointed out.

 _"You're_ not allowed in Junkertown, you mad cunt!" Junkrat fired back.

This gave Roadhog pause. "Yeah," he grudgingly conceded. "But I'll have an easier time getting in without you mucking around."

"Ridiculous," Junkrat scoffed. "Everyone loves me!"

"No one loves you."

Junkrat brushed the slight aside. Roadhog wasn't being cruel; he was stating a fact. The other Junkers hated his guts, and the welcome reception that he personally had received had only reaffirmed this.

On some level, Junkrat knew he was lying to himself when he pretended that others enjoyed his company. Most people couldn't put up with his eccentricities, his penchant for explosives, his lack of filter and moral compass, his inability to behave appropriately in any social situation, the Molotov cocktail of emotions that was his constant state of being. He _knew_ he was off-putting, but his overly inflated ego would never let him say so out loud. He was genuinely perfectly content to live in denial and continue being overly friendly to new people. A lifetime of rejection didn't deter him. He just didn't _care_ \-- he bounced back easily, always shrugging it off as "their loss." He lived such a hedonistic, carefree life, indulging in whatever pleasures his grubby little heart desired, and he was _happy_. He wasn't going to be brought down by a couple of wankers who didn't appreciate him.

Besides, he had proof that his occasionally inappropriate friendliness worked out. He had Roadhog.

"You love me," he said, poking Roadhog's belly.

Roadhog snorted. "Debatable."

"Yer killin' me, 'Hog."

Roadhog leaned down to press the snout of his mask to the top of Junkrat's head. "Yeah. I do."

A warm glow spread through Junkrat's stomach, and a grin slid across his face as he wriggled on the bed. Before Roadhog could pull away, Junkrat grabbed his harness and kissed the stitched line of his gas mask's mouth. The urge to climb all over Roadhog, to slip off the mask and _properly_ kiss him, to forget all about the idea he'd hatched and spend the rest of the day in bed, was all-consuming. But for once -- for _once_ in his life -- he exercised a modicum of self-control and pulled away. "Okay, okay, okay, go get those ingredients! Surprise me."

"I always do."

Junkrat giggled. "Sure ya do! Always keepin' me on me toes. All five of 'em."

Roadhog paused at the front door. "Don't burn down the house while I'm gone."

"Hey! You say that like I don't know how to control my own explosions."

Roadhog's silence spoke volumes.

"...Oh, shut up."

\---

In Roadhog's absence, Junkrat occupied himself with art. He could have worked on detailed technical drawings of prototypes for new inventions, but he needed to be in the zone for that, and his head was too far in the clouds to properly concentrate. Instead, he drew shitty little stick figure doodles of himself and Roadhog on their latest adventure.

"Now that's what I call a masterpiece," he said to himself, brushing a tear from his eye as he looked at his crayon drawings.

When he got bored with scribbling, he switched to juggling grenades, which never failed to entertain him.

Roadhog walked in just as he let a handful of grenades fall to the floor, cupping a hand to his ear to listen to the _boom_ s.

"Really?" he said, judgment dripping from his voice.

Junkrat smirked at him. "Y'know, this is really all your fault," he remarked. "You left me alone to my own devices! Explosions were _gonna_ happen. Least I didn't set nothin' on fire."

"Yeah. Lucky the place is still standing." He approached their makeshift kitchen counter and set down a handful of ingredients.

Junkrat snickered and slid over to Roadhog's side to peek at the spoils.

"Eggs?" he said, wrinkling his nose up at Roadhog. This was not the glamorous and exciting meal he was anticipating.

"They're easy to make. Good first meal for beginners."

Junkrat snorted. "Oh, _please_. I'm brilliant, lemme take a crack at the real complicated shit. Bet I could suss it out, no prob!"

"Prove to me that you won't fuck up eggs first."

Junkrat shrugged. "Suit yerself," he said, picking at the carton of eggs. "Who'd ya steal those from, anyway? The bloke what runs the takeaway shop?"

Roadhog nodded once. He pushed Junkrat aside and opened the carton before his destructive little partner could break its fragile contents. With a light touch, he removed two eggs and placed them on the counter. He might have been built like a brick shithouse, but Roadhog possessed a remarkable delicateness. Junkrat couldn't help but marvel as he watched Roadhog prepare the ingredients -- two eggs, a half-empty litre of milk, mismatched salt and pepper shakers, a can of non-stick cooking spray, a spatula -- and he was, apparently, glaringly obvious in his adoration.

"What are you looking at?" Roadhog grunted.  

"Nothing!" Junkrat hastily replied, his knee-jerk reaction to deny any and everything. "Just admirin' the view, that's all," he amended, flashing him what he hoped was a winning grin. "Hang on, lemme get the blackboard and we can get started!"

He wheeled the blackboard over to the corner of their house that served as their kitchen. It still detailed the plans of their last grandiose scheme. Junkrat spat on the slate and used his forearm to wipe it clean. He painstakingly printed the word "EGGS!!" at the top of the board and underlined it three times before drawing several ovals.

He took a generous step back. Cocked his head. Tapped the chalk against his lips. Discovered that he enjoyed the taste of chalk and sucked on it thoughtfully as he studied his work. He hadn't managed to depict his subject in a suitably convincing manner, so he corrected the issue by drawing several arrows between the word "EGGS" and the ovals.

Behind him, Roadhog laughed, a deep, low chuckle that Junkrat could feel in his bones. At the familiar sound of his partner's amusement, he whirled around to face Roadhog, caught between delight and suspicion.

"What's so funny?"

"You," Roadhog said, and Junkrat could _hear_ the smile in his voice. "Your art."

Junkrat puffed out his chest. "I," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "am an _artist_!"

"I know."

"All the good artists label their work!"

"I'm sure they do."

Junkrat grabbed a mechanic's handbook from his workbench and shoved it flat against one of the eyes of Roadhog's gas mask. "See?" he accused, gesturing at the labelled diagram of a motorcycle engine.

"I see," Roadhog said, even though in all likelihood, he probably couldn't make out anything with the image pressed against his field of vision.

"Good!" Junkrat said, satisfied with this response. He tossed the manual aside. "Glad we got that sorted. Anyways." He turned back to his blackboard. "What we cookin'?"

"Scrambled eggs." Roadhog scooped up a mostly-clean bowl and frying pan and set them up on the counter.

"Scrambled..." Junkrat muttered, inserting the word in his title. This called for further revision. With the stub of chalk clenched awkwardly in his fist, he scrawled furiously over the eggs he had drawn and labelled.

"Now they're scrambled, see?" he explained, gesturing at the scribbles.

"Beautiful," an amused Roadhog said.

"Thank you!" Junkrat beamed at him. "'Bout time ya started appreciatin' my artistic genius. Okay, lay it on me. How do we make 'em?" He assumed a battle-ready stance, crouching with his chalk poised above the slate.

"Easy," Roadhog said. He picked up an egg and cracked it against the rim of the bowl. "Crack two eggs, then--"

"Hey, hey, slow yer roll there, big guy!" Junkrat shushed him, waving a hand in Roadhog's general direction as he wrote down the first step. He was a quick thinker, a quick talker (an unfortunate characteristic that got him into trouble more often than not), but when it came to reading and writing, he lagged behind. He never cared much for books. The words slid around in his head, and unless it was about mechanical engineering, he wasn't willing to expend the energy. Writing presented less of a challenge, but he was still _slow_. He still had the grasp of a five-year-old, and it hampered his ability to write quickly. Orphaned at a young age, he had had no one to teach him otherwise, and he'd never advanced to a more sophisticated pencil grip.

But Roadhog was patient. He waited for Junkrat to finish printing the first step and walked him through the rest of them, pausing as necessary so he could transcribe -- a generous splash of milk, a little bit of salt and pepper, whisk it all together.

"Y've done this before," Junkrat said, observing the way that Roadhog tipped the bowl at a slight angle and beat the eggs with one of their few clean forks.  

Roadhog nodded. "Used to make these for breakfast. I had a few chooks."

Junkrat whipped his head up to grin at Roadhog, mouth agape in glee. Roadhog was usually reticent about his past. He could recall only a handful of times that he had shared stories about his life before the omnium explosion. Junkrat squirrelled this nugget of information away in his brain's mental vault. He wasn't always the best at remembering things, admittedly, but he was determined not to forget this little fact. Even after all their time together, Roadhog was a man of mystery, and Junkrat knew next to nothing about the person he was before the apocalypse changed him. He never knew Mako Rutledge, only Roadhog, so every miniscule detail he learned about him was a gift.

"Stop looking at me like that," Roadhog told him.

"Ain't lookin' at you any different than normal," Junkrat said innocently, but he closed his mouth regardless.

Roadhog snorted. "Yeah. That's about the sum of it." He turned on the hotplate, placed the frying pan on the burner, and sprayed it with the cooking spray. "Couldn't find any butter, so this'll have to do. We're cooking them on low heat." He looked directly at Junkrat. "Low heat," he repeated.

"Low… heat…" Junkrat muttered, spelling out the words on his blackboard. "Got it."

He watched as Roadhog cooked the eggs, periodically pushing the mixture towards the center of the pan with the spatula he had stolen from the takeaway. It took a maddening amount of time. He was not patient enough for this.

"They're done," Roadhog announced, pulling the frying pan off the hotplate. "Soft and moist but not underdone." Junkrat had no idea how to tell the difference, but he nodded along like he knew what Roadhog was talking about.

"So, wait, they're finished? That's _it_?" He cackled and threw his piece of chalk over his shoulder. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor. "Easy as! Why doesn't everyone cook?"

"Low. Heat," Roadhog reiterated, stressing the words.

"Okay, okay, okay, I get it, move yer fat arse, it's my turn!" He bumped Roadhog with his hip, as if that would knock him aside.

Roadhog stepped aside and deposited his batch of eggs into a bowl.

"Clean the frying pan first," he said, handing the skillet to Junkrat, who made a face at him.

"Don't see why we gotta, we're just gonna dirty it up again," he said, but he obliged.

With the frying pan clean and his workstation readied, Junkrat plucked an egg from the carton. He tried to mimic Roadhog's delicate grip, but it just felt _awkward_. He hovered the egg above their prep space, testing his swing a few times, before bringing his hand up and smashing it against the lip of the bowl.

They both stared at the mess of crushed eggshell and runny yolk.

"What the fuck, Junkrat."

"That was a slight miscalculation on my part."

"A slight one."

He went through three more eggs before Roadhog took the carton away from him and cracked the egg himself.

He was proud to say that he needed zero input from Roadhog, the nosy bastard, when it came to pouring in the dollop of milk. Roadhog had plenty to say when it came to adding the seasoning, however -- apparently he was "heavy-handed" and "drowning the eggs in pepper" -- and he was forced to dial back the enthusiasm for the salt.

"This doesn't feel like enough salt," he said, staring at the bowl with a critical eye.

"I promise it's enough salt," Roadhog said, his voice weary. "Whisk it and pour it in the pan -- not as hard as you're thinking," he added, and Junkrat, who had been prepared to viciously beat the eggs with his fork, deflated slightly. He went to tip the bowl, just as Roadhog had done, but a huge hand stopped him.

"Don't," was all Roadhog said, and he held the bowl flat against the countertop as Junkrat whisked the eggs.

He poured the mixture into the pan, placed it on the hotplate, and cranked the heat up.

Roadhog twiddled the dial back down to "low." He looked at Junkrat, then pointed at the blackboard.

"Low heat," Junkrat read. "Oh." He chuckled. "Roight."

"Idiot," Roadhog grumbled, shaking his head.

He tried to imitate Roadhog's cooking methods, scraping the egg mixture away from him as it solidified, and the end result didn't look all that different from the bowl of eggs that Roadhog had made.

Junkrat shovelled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. A tad too peppery, but otherwise-- "Perfect!" Junkrat proclaimed, delighted. "And I did it all on me own!"

"No."

Junkrat shot him a look. "Wha-- yes I did!"

"I cracked the eggs. Warned you about the salt. Turned down the heat."

"Don't know what yer on about, mate. I was the mastermind behind these beautiful eggs."

Roadhog sighed but, as with so many of his interactions with Junkrat, let it go.

\---

Junkrat woke up at the crack of dawn the next morning. Roadhog slumbered beside him, hooked up to his oxygen tank, and as he watched the steady rise and fall of his belly, Junkrat was overcome with a swell of affection for his partner.

He crept out of bed, careful not to wake Roadhog up. He was determined to make his partner breakfast. It was Christmas Eve, and he couldn't think of a better way to show his love for Roadhog than through food.

Junkrat consulted his blackboard and selected two eggs. He cracked them into the bowl and quickly glanced back towards the bed to make sure that the sound hadn't roused Roadhog from his sleep.

He looked back inside the bowl, where several pieces of shell floated. He stuck a grubby finger in the egg whites and attempted to fish out the biggest pieces. He mostly succeeded. _Good enough,_ he thought to himself. He poured in a hefty splash of milk, then checked the board again.

"A little bit of salt and pepper," he mouthed. He could not remember what constituted _a little bit_. Several shakes of each shaker didn't seem to produce a substantial amount, so he kept going until he was satisfied.

He poured the eggs into the frying pan and placed it onto the hotplate. He went to turn it on, when a wonderful idea struck him. If it took ten minutes to cook on low heat, it would probably only take one minute to cook on _high_ heat.

Junkrat cranked the burner up as high as it possibly could go.

"Now, where the hell is that spatula..." he muttered to himself, realising that he had no idea where it had ended up after they'd finished making their first batch of eggs. Several long minutes later, he found it underneath the fridge, and he very nearly woke Roadhog up with a triumphant " _ha!_ "

He returned to the very familiar smell of smoke. He swore and started scraping the burnt eggs, but he had made matters worse for himself by not spraying the pan first, so the eggs had stuck to the bottom of the skillet. He removed the frying pan from the hotplate and scraped harder, and the singed mess began to chip off.

"What're you doing?"

Junkrat whirled around, his fight-or-flight reflexes going haywire, and he instinctively brandished the frying pan like a weapon.

The eggs hit the floor with a wet _slap_.

Roadhog stood before him in nothing but a pair of pig-patterned boxers. He stared at his twitchy partner for a few excruciatingly long seconds before his gaze travelled down to the burnt mess on the ground.

Junkrat followed his line of sight. He dove for the food and scraped it back into the pan. "Five second rule, they're _fine_!" he said with a flippant wave of his hand as he straightened out. "Anyways. I'm makin' you brekkie!" He nabbed a fork and held out the utensil and skillet. "Merry Christmas!"

"It's not Christmas."

"Oh." Junkrat frowned, lowering his gift. "It's not?"

"You're a week early."

"Son of a bitch." Well, he would have to come up with something else for a holiday present then. Maybe he'd steal Roadhog's gun, paint it Christmas colors, and regift it. He was confident that Roadhog would appreciate the personal touch. He made a mental note to do this in a week. He didn't harbour any false bravado about his ability to remember this, however -- he might lie to himself, but he wasn't _completely_ delusional -- and he made the snap decision to write down this plan. "Hang on just a sec," he blurted out, shoving the frying pan and fork into Roadhog's hands and sprinting for the nearest scrap of paper and pencil stub. In his blocky chickenscratch, he wrote down "CHRISTMAS GUN --1 WEEK!" and shoved the paper in the pocket of his shorts.

"Okay, where were we?" he said, returning to Roadhog's side. "Oh, roight -- don't think of this as a Christmas prezzy then. Think of it as a thanks for all the times y've saved me skin!"

"I do that a lot."

"Sure do, mate. Sure do." He waited expectantly as Roadhog simply stood there. _Bloody ungrateful cunt_ , he thought to himself. _Look at him, not appreciating all my hard work!_ "Well?" he demanded. "What're ya waitin' for? Eat 'em while they're still warm!"

Roadhog looked down at the frying pan. The eggs were burnt beyond recognition, there were at least three visible pieces of shell, and they were gritty with dirt and dust from the filthy concrete floor.

He looked up at Junkrat, who grinned at him encouragingly.

Roadhog exhaled audibly, the sound wheezing through the filters of his gas mask. He loosened the seal of his mask and pushed it up.

Junkrat watched with bated breath as he carefully scraped up a forkful of eggs and took a bite. He chewed slowly, deliberately, several times before finally swallowing. "So?" Junkrat asked. "How'd I do?"

If Roadhog paused before answering, it was so slight that Junkrat didn't even notice. "Good," he said. "Good job. They're delicious."

Junkrat's laughter was a combination of delight and relief. He threw his arms around Roadhog's middle and hugged him. "I knew it!" he said exuberantly. "Told ya I'm brilliant, didn't even need this beginner recipe!"

"Want some?" Roadhog asked, offering up the plate.

Junkrat eyed the breakfast he had prepared. "Nah, I made it special for you. S'all yers, enjoy!"

"You're not hungry?"

"Naw, not yet. I can make my own later! You can eat yers now."

Roadhog gave a hum of what Junkrat assumed was agreement and sank down heavily on the tire seat at their kitchen table. He took another forkful of eggs.

Junkrat sat down on the chair opposite him and propped his chin on his hands to gaze dreamily at him.

"Merry Christmas, 'Hog," he said.

"Still not Christmas."

"Humour me, will ya?"

"Merry Christmas, Junkrat."

When Roadhog finished the eggs, he kissed Junkrat -- a proper, unmasked kiss -- before pulling his gas mask back down.

"They were delicious. But next time--" _Next time?_ "--stick with the low heat."


End file.
